That We Might Live
by claudiapriscus
Summary: Home invasions are the stuff of nightmares. They just don't happen here. Outside POV on the Winchesters, for a commentfic meme request for a scared civilian perception shift. Warning: Bad language, first person POV.


For the spngenlove commentfic meme.

They came in the night, shattering the quiet comfort of home in one perfect act of violence. BOOM. Just like that, it all fell to pieces. You always know - you always expect- that the bad guys go on the prowl at night. Who ever heard of a home invasion in broad daylight? But at a deeper level? Inside is _safe_. It's supposed to be safe. What a joke. Like a ratty old sofa and a mangy old cat could protect anything.

So in they came. Busting through the flimsy door, slamming it behind them. It took only seconds. My brain felt like it was lagging behind the action; I blinked and one had pressed me up against the wall while the other pinned Allison to the floor. They tied us up and shoved us in the corner. It's like I was too shocked to even be afraid. Too stupid, maybe. Even against the wall, the dreaded word never entered into my mind.. What would I have done if they were actually going to rape us? Just dumbly accept it? What will I do if it's simply scheduled for later?

I'm such a useless moron. Only now, that they're apparently ignoring us and my roommate's screaming and crying has subsided into shakes and whimpers has it occurred to my nervous system that, hey, this is kind of serious.

My whole body feels like its about to jitter itself into pieces. Useless_ fucking _adrenaline.

I think, _I should scream, _which is dumb, because I'm the fucking moron who had to move out to the middle of nowhere.I think a lot of stupid things. It doesn't matter. I'm still only a mute witness, as if this isn't really happening because it can't be really happening.

Our captors move in hurried, controlled motions, like men who can't afford to panic right now. I think of triage doctors and soldiers I suppose. But mostly I think of the tight voices of the firefighters who evacuated us…and then went on to their deaths, and oh my god, oh my god, no. No. Focus. Panic leashed by steel discipline. Our captors remind me of that.

_They're under attack; they're being pursued_, some older, wiser, and detached voice whispers behind the fluttering veil of my own panic. _Good,_ I tell the voice, trying to convince myself that it's the cops or an action hero, coming to save the day. It's not convinced, the voice of reason. And I don't want to think about why. Like that ever works. These guys have "don't fuck with me" written all over them. They move like Jason Bourne, so ruthlessly efficient in their movements it's gracelessly beautiful; awing, dreadful.

Dread has crept into my belly and wound its way around my spine. I've decided I do not want to know what they're running from. My roommate has moved on to a litany of desperate, whispered prayers. The words blur together but I take comfort in it. I press my shoulder more tightly against hers. Our captors take no notice. They're moving around the room, fortifying it, I guess, upturning furniture and marking up the windowsills. They spraypaint everywhere, in careful, deliberate strokes. I can't even fathom it. They're tagging up my living room in the middle of a gang war.

They stand on the opposite side of the room and have a short, sharp-worded arguments while casting nervous glances out the window. I can't make sense of what they're saying; there's too much shorthand there, too much body language. It's a code I can't break. I watch carefully, anyway. That's all I do, because I'm nothing. I'm a fucking rabbit, quivering quietly in the jaws of the dog.

They break off from their argument, and I can't tell who won, but it hardly matters because they've caught my gaze and the one who slammed me against the wall is stomping over here and oh, _fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

"Where's your phone?" he demands, and if his voice is tight, I'm no longer thinking of my poor firefighter. My roommate doesn't cease her praying, and I only blink wide eyes at him. I'd shoot myself if I could for that alone.

"Christ, I'm not going to hurt you." He's disgusted at my fear, and he's right to be, because I'm a _fucking coward_. The voice of reason disagrees, but I'm no longer listening to reason.

He's _beautiful, _you know? Fearsomely beautiful, like the angels before the renaissance got its hands on them. The messengers who struck fear into the hearts of men. The killers who could not be turned aside.

And he's talking to me again, but I've not heard. My roommate ups her prayers, beseeching God and all his angels to deliver us. He laughs at that, and tells her we're on our own unless we tell him where the goddamn phone is.

My voice is still MIA, but I manage to raise my bound arms and point at the hall closet. It's a remnant of something stupid, and I'm not surprised they haven't managed to find it. He curses and just like that, we're forgotten.

I hear a desperate shout from the kitchen. The partner had been terrorizing my kitchen, slamming drawers and banging open cabinet while he interrogate us. He shouts back and then goes back to shouting in the phone.

"They've found us," he says, and the finality of that statement leaves my mouth dry.

The partner comes striding out of the kitchen and looms over us, but his tone is pleading and tinged with desperation.

"Where's the salt?" the partner asks, like it's the most important thing in the world.

The nonsensicality returns to me the use of my voice.

"We're out. I forgot it," I manage.

The partner gives me a look so hopelessly devastated I feel irrationally guilty. It's not like I fucking told him his mother was in the final stages of terminal cancer. What was he going to do, bake a cake? And also, I'm his fucking hostage, for god's sake. Maybe this is what Stockholm's feels like.

Oh. The partner's wandered away. He's talking to my captor- _as if by throwing me against the wall he became mine_, and fuck, I'm losing it- and the third man-

Wait. Shit. When did he come in?

They're speaking in terse little phrases, still damnably encoded. The partner says something about civilians getting caught in the crossfire. He wants to stand and fight. My captor is practically exploding with rage over Uriel's fifth column, and whatever that is, I can see the fear that drives his anger. It's a hook in his guts, I can tell. I've got the same one piercing my belly.

The partner glances out the window and says something I can't hear to the others. He rushes off back into the kitchen, returning moments later with my mop bucket. Water sloshes over the sides as he hurries back. He's muttering over it so quickly the words blur together indistinctly, but the rhythm reminds me of Allison's prayers.

He dips a rag in the water and for a hysterical second, I think he's decided to chip in with the chores. But he uses the end of it to trace things on the windows and on the door. My captor stands guard at the door, gun at the ready. There's something wrong with it, but before I can figure out what, I'm distracted by the sight of the third man drawing on the phone closet door with his own goddamn blood. He gives no sign of discomfort. Forget the gun, there's something wrong with him. He has done nothing to threatening, but he scares me as much as the other two. There's something off, something dangerous. It's wrong. He's wrong. He's at right angles to the world.

Then the monsters come, and the voice of reason was right. In comparison, I am no longer scared of our captors.

I am screaming. I hear it, but I feel disconnected. It's not my voice any longer.

Rotting, mangled faces throw themselves at the windows, but the windows hold. They're leering at me, and _oh god_-

And just like that, something clicks. Panic loses its hold to something sharper. But I'm awake again; free.

They're talking about airlifts. The third man is disagreeing; my captor is insisting.

"Un-fucking-TIE me!" I kick my legs in emphasis.

The new guy surprisingly obliges. He still gives me the fucking creeps. The other two don't mind, which is wrong, but-

Of course. We're not hostages to anything but the misfortune of needing to be rescued. These guys are the _cavalry_. It's hilarious, actually.

I've wandered into the middle of another hidden war. I've got another front row seat to the deaths of good men- and what else could they be? Who throws themselves into the line of fire for random strangers?

.I don't understand any of this. I don't know what the stakes are, who the enemy is, or why they're fighting. I definitely don't want to die, and they still scare the crap out of me. They're dangerous. But there's a limit, you see, to how much self sacrifice on your behalf you can take, especially by those whose shoes you could never hope to fill. It's been eight years but it'll never be enough.

I stand up. My knees still feel a little shaky, and it pisses me off. I lean down and untie Allison, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's gone quiet.

The men have gone back to their argument. They all look exhausted, a detail that escaped me before.

Intuition has sparked a thought. The voice of reason whispers away in my ear.

"I won't go."

The first two- and there's some family resemblance there, if only in posture and gesture- look surprised to hear me speak. They'd almost forgotten about us again. It figures. Die for us, but we're not really real to them.

"It's alright," the tallest one murmurs gently, "we're going to move you somewhere safer." He speaks to me like a spooked horse.

"No."

"Look lady," the one I'd labeled 'mine' said, "This isn't a game. Stay here and die."

"Like you're planning to do." I can't help the bitterness. "No. We'll stay." I should feel guilty for possibly condemning Allison along with me, but…well. This is something bigger than us.

He glances sideways at - his brother? - who looks ready to launch into another round of soft, persuasive words. The new guy catches my eye. It feels like he's picking apart every thought that's ever crossed my mind and every deed I've ever done, but he seems to understand.

"I'm guessing you don't want to be a person short in this fight. We won't go." I let them hear my fucking determination on that point.

I walk back over to my friend, sit down next to her, and hold her tight.

I hear a little more argument, but it's more resigned.

Soon after that, all hell breaks loose.

But this time? The heroes survive.


End file.
